


The Road of Bones

by J_Baillier



Series: Screaming In Cathedrals [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, Angst, BAMF John, Borderline platonic bedsharing, Developing Relationship, Drugged Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, John Loves Sherlock, John is Not Okay, John is a Saint, John is a Very Good Doctor, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Medical, Medical Conditions, Medical Realism, Medical kink bingo, Mental Breakdown, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft is a surprisingly good drinking buddy, Poor Sherlock, Pre-Slash, Protective John, Sad John, Sad Sherlock, Serious Illness, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock needs to be kept off Youtube, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic, Surgery, Vulnerable Sherlock, cerebral aneurysm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-13 15:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4527585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock usually ignores warning signals from The Transport but this time, it's his precious brain that's in jeopardy. How will he and John cope?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost for words

**Author's Note:**

> Cover art: <http://archiveofourown.org/works/4551441>

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is forced to admit that his vast but mostly theoretical medical knowledge is no match for John's actual doctor training.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: After The Hound, before The Fall.  
> Status of this story: completed. I was originally thinking about posting a chapter once a week but realized that since I have waiting for new chapters maybe somebody else does, too :)
> 
> The point of view is John's apart from chapter 8. As for the shipping status of this fic, I quote Moffat: "It's always definitely a love story." Pre-slash would probably be the best description.
> 
> In civilian life I am a medical professional. After receiving some very positive feedback concerning the medical content in my previous works I realized that I really ought to utilize my professional knowledge more for this sort of deviousness. The medical facts depicted here are quite accurate (naturally some simplification and use of artistic licence was necessary) and this is a scenario that can and does happen to people. Some additional discussion about the medical issues featured can be found in the individual chapters' Author's notes. 
> 
> Detailed literary and lyrics quote references will be listed in the Author's notes of the epilogue.
> 
> I am eternally grateful to the wonderful Chloe (mildlyamusingsoprano) for betareading.

>   
>  __  
> **Every moment is a boulder being fired  
>  \- Saint Saviour**  
> 

  


 

"No," Sherlock says and John sighs. He applauds Lestrade's bravery for even raising such a subject, but also marvels at the Detective Inspector's unfounded optimism.

"You know I don't do paperwork." Sherlock continues, crossing his arms and leaning on the doorway of DI Lestrade's office. From his expression, it's clear that he thinks this ought to be the end of the conversation.

Lestrade runs his hand through his hair. "Look at it my way. The higher-ups have made it very clear that scribbling down 'appendix 1: see John Watson's blog' in my reports will no longer cut it. We're not all geniuses like you."

"As I am well aware, yes," Sherlock replies dryly and John smiles into his cup of dreadful coffee. 

"Oh haha. As I was saying, I don't always follow or remember the intuitive leaps you make - -"

"Not intuitive leaps. Deductions."

"Whatever. Look," Lestrade says, a note a pleading creeping into his voice, "Maybe you could at least pop in when I'm writing this crap so I could clarify some things. Fill in the gaps."

"Need I remind you that I'm a freelancer and therefore not bound to Yard bureaucracy?"

"And I need to keep my job. Which sort of means that I'm responsible for these deductions of yours, and have to be able to explain them to the higher-ups."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but descends onto a chair in a whirl of coattails. "I see no reason why this could not be done via text or Skype."

John chucks his empty disposable cup into the waste bin. "If Greg here prefers to talk to you with your clothes on then Skype is probably not an option."

Lestrade shakes his head while Sherlock glares at John. 

"I could say that your cooperation in reporting might be conducive to our working relationship actually continuing," Lestrade tries.

Sherlock's raises his brow. "Blackmail, Lestrade? Not very becoming of a police officer."

"But that's not a no," John remarks.

Sherlock sighs more exasperatedly than seems necessary. "Very well. I assume your report for the Gardiner case is long overdue. What do you wish to know?"

"You're being awfully well-behaved today," Lestrade comments while digging around his drawers for a pen.

"Don't push it," John remarks quietly.

Pen in hand, Lestrade straightens his writing pad. "First of all, what was the connection between the train schedule and murder weapon?"

"The weapon had to be delivered to Gardiner in a way that would not arouse suspicion but which would provide him with an alibi - being seen at a crowded - - Not - -" Sherlock pauses, frowning. He swallows and opens his mouth again. "I - - Once - - It's not," he turns to look at John, eyes wide.

"Sherlock?" John is studying his face, trying to understand.

"At. A. Seventy - -" he pauses again, shuts his mouth and looks at John with the most desperate expression the doctor has ever seen. 

"What's going on?" Lestrade asks, dropping his pen onto the pad, his eyes darting from Holmes to Watson.

Sherlock closes his eyes momentarily, letting out the breath he'd been holding without realizing. "Lost my train of thought," he offers slowly, as though testing each word. 

"Didn't sound like it." Didn't sound like you, John really wants to say but Sherlock is having none of it.

"I am quite fine," Sherlock says sternly and returns his attention to Lestrade. "As I was saying, the exchange probably happened on the eastbound platform." Sherlock explains further while Lestrade makes notes.

To John Sherlock now sounds like his usual brilliant self but there's something about what has happened that John just can't shake. He decides he needs to ask Sherlock when he'd last slept and eaten, since running on fumes was usually the reason when Sherlock sometimes acted more strangely than usual.

 

 

After the gaps in Lestrade's report have been filled they leave for home. Sherlock hadn't, surprisingly enough, blown a gasket from having to explain so many things. Things that probably had felt rather evident during the case. 

It's not rush hour yet, so pedestrian traffic is slow. 

"Any plans for this evening?" John enquires, sticking his hands into his pockets. Spring is only in its early stages and he has forgotten his gloves.

"No," is the curt reply he receives. 

Sherlock quickens his pace.

"Hold on, my legs aren't as long as yours," John reminds him and hurries along. "I think there's still some of Mrs Hudson's stew left," he offers since he feels obligated to remind Sherlock of the existence of food now that the case is closed.

There's no reply. They pause at a red light and John gets to take a look at Sherlock. He looks quite normal, if a little pale and tired. "You alright there, mate?" John asks, carefully trying to keep his tone as light as possible.

"Yes." Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them slowly, squinting as though sensitive to light. "Migraine, I guess."

"You get those?" The light turns green and Sherlock launches into his brisk pace again, clearly wanting to get home quickly.

"Not really, no. There is a family history of migraines with aura symptoms, so there's no need to be alarmed."

"Head hurts, then?"

"No. At least not yet," Sherlock replie, sounding annoyed. They round a corner and the front door of 221b Baker Street appears in view.

"Well, what then?"

Sherlock starts digging his pockets for the keys. "I believe they call it a scintillating scotoma. Half of my visual field is currently filled with a swirly sawtooth pattern."

It doesn't surprise John that Sherlock has such medical terminology down pat. "Right." 

"I distinctly remember my mother suffering from something similar," Sherlock offers as further proof.

"Still, even if there was a family history, new migraines don't usually pop up in thirtysomething males," John comments. 

Sherlock looks at him like he's spoiled all the fun. "What you experienced earlier might have been an aura symptom as well, you know. Some people mess up their words right before an attack."

"You have your diagnosis, then," Sherlock remarks dryly and John knows better than to push the issue. 

They enter the flat, and John goes into his room to find some over-the-counter painkillers in preparation of the headache that's probably about to happen.

 

 

 

The pain never appears. Sherlock spends his evening fiddling with his microscope without any further complaints about his health. Not that the man tended to be honest about such issues anyway. 

After John finishes his Le Carre novel sometime before midnight he tells Sherlock goodnight. There's no reply, which is not unusual. John gives Sherlock a discreet once-over while returning his book to the shelf. He seems fine, so John heads to his bedroom. 

After awhile, the sound of Sherlock playing the violin begins drifting in. He's playing a Handel sonata, which John only recognizes because it is what Sherlock has been practicing for the past few weeks. Some passages have been so technically difficult that Sherlock has had to iterate them into smaller parts for easier repetition. 

Tonight, the music flows gracefully.

 

 

It is somewhere during the early hours of the morning when John wakes up, startled when his bed suddenly begins to shake violently. Or not the bed exactly. Someone is shaking _him_ frantically. 

"Alright, what?" John mumbles, pushing the duvet away and fumbling for the switch of the lamp on his bedside table. The light feels so bright he has to squint.

Sherlock lets go of his shoulder and stands frozen by the bed, looking as though he's seen a ghost and is trying to preserve some level of composure. "John."

"My name, yeah. What's this, then? Do we have a case?"

"I can't play."

"You said it yourself, it's a tricky piece you've been working on. What the hell am I supposed to do about it?" Couldn't he be granted just one night of peaceful sleep without Sherlock's shenanigans? 

Sherlock looks frustrated like he usually does when people aren't following his bullet-train of thought. "I can't use the bow."

John is suddenly very much awake. He sits up. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock stretches out his right hand. "There's something wrong with me."

John swallows as the gravity of this statement sinks in. Sherlock never, ever says anything like this. To Sherlock, even a broken limb or a gunshot wound are only minor distractions.

John pulls Sherlock down to sit on the bed beside him. "You'll have to be a bit more specific," he tells Sherlock, trying his best to sound as calm and composed as he possible can. His doctor mode takes some moments to kick in - it's the middle of the night, after all. "Does anything hurt? Could it be a sprain? Tendinitis?"

He gingerly picks up Sherlock's right hand. The temperature feels normal, there's no swelling or redness. 

Sherlock shakes his head. "Nothing of the sort. I was playing, and then began missing notes. Suddenly I couldn't sustain the pressure needed to create enough friction to produce any sound. Then I dropped the bow. I tried to pick it up but to no avail, fingers just wouldn't function. I then tried to grab hold of a teacup instead but somehow kept missing it."

"Muscle weakness, then. And some coordination difficulty. Any numbness, tingling?"

"No."

"Squeeze," John tells him, after grabbing both of Sherlock's palms in a handshake hold. 

Sherlock obliges and John swallows nervously. There's a distinct lack of strenght in the grip of his right hand. John lets go and stretches out his own arms, positioning them horizontally. "Do this and then close your eyes. Try to keep your palms towards the ceiling."

Sherlock obeys. His right hand trembles slightly, as though lifting it requires great effort. It barely holds in place before it starts slowly descending. 

John's throat is dry. "Try to hold your hands level."

"I am!" Sherlock replies indignantly, eyes closed, "They're perfectly level!"

John grabs his phone from the table and dials 999.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What John says here is an important lesson: emerging migraines are a young person's game. Most familial migraines appear during adolescence or even earlier. More sinister reasons should always be ruled out in cases where the patient is considerably older than that. The form of expressive aphasia that Sherlock momentarily suffers here can sometimes appear as a migraine aura(=pre-symptom to the headache pat of a migraine attack) - words come out right but the words themselves are wrong - not what you were supposed to say. It's not a very common aura symptom - visual disturbances such as the scintillating scotoma mentioned here are usually the norm. Some people suffer from what is known as a hemiplegic migraine, the symptoms of which can closely mimic a stroke, so during a first-ever attack of that kind, more serious reasons should promptly be ruled out. However you look at it, John is in no way overreacting when he dials the emergency number.


	2. Veins of glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> References to his past drug use annoy and embarrass Sherlock, John gets to show off his medical skills and devastating news is received.

>   
>  **_Be faith, I need it_ **  
>  **_Pray I believe it_ **  
>  **_\- Lykke Li_ **  
> 

A mere thirty minutes later they arrive at King's College Hospital's A&E department, despite Sherlock's protests that St Bartholomew's is much closer. John shuts him up by telling him that King's College has MRI facilities open around the clock and a more prestigious neurological department. 

Mycroft texts John as Sherlock is being triaged. John is only slightly irritated to realize Mycroft is monitoring emergency dispatches in case emergency services get sent to 221b Baker street. He's too worried about Sherlock to properly care. His reply to Mycroft is short, merely stating that there's no immediate danger and that he would get back to Mycroft later when they had some answers. 

To both their relief the motor function of Sherlock's righ hand seems to have recovered by the time the neurologist on-call is making her initial status assessment. Nevertheless, there is a CT with contrast dye ordered promptly after an inconclusive initial regular CT scan.

Sherlock is currently grimacing, because a stern-looking ER nurse is in the midst of her seventh attempt at cannulating a vein in the bend of his arm. 

John huffs, feeling impatient. "Can't you place one on the back of his hand?"

The nurse looks frustrated. "They need a good-sized IV for the contrast dye and if we place it more distally radiology always complains. They've calculated the circulation times with the IV in the antecubital fossa. Not much I can do here, frankly. His veins are basically shot."

There's a strange mix of annoyance and embarrassment on Sherlock's face John can't say he has often witnessed. He has noticed that Sherlock has never happy to hear his past substance abuse discussed in front of people whose existence he has chosen to tolerate.

"Look," John offers disarmingly, "If you've got some sort of an ultrasound here, I could try and get one in using that. Easier than a PICC or central line and you won't need to page the on-call anaesthetist."

The nurse crosses her arms. "I can't let you perform procedures without proper authorization."

John presents his driver's licence. "My NHS registry number is 61477. I've got admitting privileges here, at St Barts and Charing Cross as well. You can easily clear it with the managing physician if need be."

"I will, Dr Watson. I'll be right back."

Sherlock looks somewhat impressed. "Ultrasound?"

John shrugs. "It's easier than it sounds. We used it all the time in Afghanistan - when you've got someone bleeding heavily their peripheral circulation sort of closes down and it can be tricky to find a good vein. We had this portable thing in the outpost I was stationed in - donated by some medical company, I guess, and in the slower hours I tried to get some practice in to get proficient. Did really come in handy a couple of times." John inches his chair closer to the gurney. "Let me have a look."

Sherlock bites his lip as John inspects him arms. There's considerable scarring in the more accessible major veins of both arms - as John gently runs his fingers over them they feel hardened and as though filled with pebbles. The veins on the backs of his hands look fine but they're of no use - it's not the first time John has been made aware of radiology's preference for the less peripheral ones in the upper extremity.

John finally lets go of the arm and Sherlock sits up on the gurney. 

"You seem quiet," John remarks. "Penny for your thoughts?"

Sherlock seems contemplate this suggestion for a moment before opening his mouth. "Differential diagnoses?"

John takes a moment. He doesn't want to cause undue worry but knows Sherlock would not appreciate obfuscation either. "Some sort of circulation event seems most likely. You're pretty young for those, but considering your smoking, poor nutrition - -, " this earns him a glare, "And stress levels I don't think it would be out of the question."

"Still, stroke symptoms do not come and go."

"Stroke is not the only possibility," John remarks, secretly enjoying that for once he's the one with a better grasp of the big picture. It's not rare he gets to one-up Mr Know-it-all. "There's also TIA."

"Go on." Sherlock idly adjusts his backless gown. 

"Transient ischaemic attack. It's sort of a warning before a proper stroke, a momentary block of an artery which resolves on its own. The thing is, the vessel often blocks again, more permanently. Visual auras are not a very common symptom of that, though, as far as I recall."

The nurse returns, with a portable ultrasound unit and an attempt of a smile, since John has offered to take a significant chore off her hands. John disappears into the hallway to desinfect his hands. When he returns, the nurse hands him a pair of gloves and leaves with a nod.

John sets to work locating a vein with the ultrasound probe and decides it's best to distract Sherlock with conversation. "There are other options, as well, but you have to promise me not to worry too much about them yet."

"You're saying that a blood clot in the brain isn't enough to worry about?"

John pauses his work and meets Sherlock's gaze. "I don't need to tell you more if you don't want me to."

Sherlock looks apprehensive. "I can't function if I don't have all the facts." He tries to peer into the ultrasound screen and John turns it a bit so he can watch. "How do you know where to aim?"

"Basically it's like this: nerves look like chords, muscles look like cloth, blood is pitch black inside mostly oval or roundish vessels. Veins don't pulsate and can be compressed."

"So basically, you deduce which one is a vein and which one's an artery?" Sherlock enquires.

John nods and picks up an IV cannula. Sherlock watches him with his usual air of detachment when faced with pain or violence. John sometimes wonders if it's genuine or a carefully constructed act.

"Listen, I know you want all the facts but sometimes it's okay just to try and process one thing at a time. Arm still, please." 

"Can we get one of these machines at home?" Sherlock inquires, pointing at the ultrasound and hissing as John plunges the cannula into the crook of his elbow and smiles when a drop of blood appearing in the guide chamber confirms that he has hit a vein on the first try.

John then secures the cannula in place with tape and leans back to admire his handiwork. "They cost about ten thousand pounds. And no, that's not the only reason. Lord knows what terrible things you would use it for."

"Why don't nurses use this equipment?" Sherlock enquires, "It doesn't seem to require much background knowledge or training."

John laughs. "I easily succeeded in what that nurse couldn't manage with Lord-knows-how many tries, and your take is that a trained monkey could have done it? Only you, Sherlock."

"I didn't mean to undervalue your efforts," Sherlock offers gingerly.

"Thanks, I guess," John replies and puts away the ultrasound. 

"What about those differential diagnoses, then?" Sherlock reminds him.

"The other diagnostic options that come to mind are a mass lesion of some kind, although they tend to cause longer-lasting symptoms in general, or a malformed blood vessel."

"You mean a tumour or an aneurysm?" Sherlock sounds apprehensive.

"Aneurysm or an arterial-venous malformation. As I said, you need to promise not to get ahead of yourself. There doesn't seem to be any permanent damage done, which means that whatever this is, we've got a chance of fixing it before anything worse happens."

Sherlock leans back on the gurney, lost in thought. On the surface he looks quite calm and collected, but John notices the way in which he keeps tapping his fingers nervously on the edge of the gurney.

 

 

 

Two hours later John is trying hard to hang onto his professional demeanour. He's painfully aware that if he lets go of Dr Watson for a second, he won't be of much use to his friend. If he lets go he knows it'll hit him full force - the realization of what lies waiting in the barrel of the proverbial gun.

Words like "median cerebral artery aneurysm", "significant risk of rupture", "elective surgery", "luminal diameter exceeding endovascular treatment limits" and "genetic disposition" hang in the air after being spoken by Dr Berry, the consultant neurosurgeon assigned to Sherlock's case only an hour ago. John knows the poor man has been dragged back to the hospital from home in the middle of the night by the neurologist on-call but he doesn't feel any pity for his colleague. Not when this is clearly what Sherlock now needs.

John leans back in his chair as he listens to surgeon explain everything to Sherlock.

To an untrained observer Sherlock might look like he's listening - nodding in the right places and looking inquisitive enough - but John can read him. He knows the little things he is spotting are Sherlock's tells. The forefinger tapping on the coarse bedsheet. The occasional biting of his lower lip, which he never usually does, not even during the rare occasions when a case has him completely baffled. John fights the impulse to take a hold of his friend's hand. 

The surgeon bids his farewell, passes Sherlock a calling card with an outpatient appointment time scribbled onto the back and leaves.

John stands up and grabs Sherlock's clothes from the hanger. Sherlock doesn't move a muscle. John drops the clothes in a heap on the bed - something the usually impeccably groomed Sherlock is likely to hate. "Hey," John says quietly, and finally Sherlock meets his gaze. "Let's go home."

Sherlock blinks. Twice. "What?"

"Didn't you hear the guy? Your surgery is scheduled a week from now. We can go home now."

"Shouldn't I be kept in for observation?"

"Observation for what? Your symptoms are gone, the aneurysm hasn't bled yet and it's still relatively small. We live ten minutes by ambulance from the nearest unit fit to handle neurosurgical emergencies. There's no reason why you couldn't spend the week at home."

Sherlock looks sceptical, but starts gathering his clothes in silence.

Sherlock hates hospitals, John reminds himself. He really does. And now he'd have agreed to stay in one without so much as an argument. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock ties his scarf around his neck, his movements automatic. "Quite, yes, of course, John."

"You've just been told you need surgery for a brain aneurysm. It's okay not to be, well, okay, you know," John offers but Sherlock is clearly having none of it. 

"Baker street it is, then," John says. 

Sherlock pulls on his coat and strides into the emergency room entrance foyer. To John it seems that the usual theatrical flourish is somewhat absent from his movements. 

John jogs after Sherlock. Not much more he can do at this point than to see and observe.

 

 

[the DVD Extras version of the story contains [an additional scene](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4956424/chapters/11380999) which takes place right here in the timeline of the story]

 

 

The surgeon is holding up a skull. Judging by its yellowish hue and somewhat fragile-looking quality John deduces it's a genuine one. A trophy of sorts - not that it would in any likehood belong to any of Dr Berry's former patients. To John it just felt like something that a neurosurgeon might logically want to have in their office. It's very similar to the one on their mantelpiece. He doesn't tell this to Dr Berry.

Sherlock is having his proper preoperative visit with the surgeon. It had been scheduled for the morning after their A&E visit. The surgeon had talked to Sherlock at length at the A&E department but John knows that when the initial shock of a diagnosis is delivered, patients rarely remember much else that had been discussed around that time. So a proper appointment during daylight hours was needed.

Sherlock seems to be listening intently as Dr Berry is explaining him the intricacies of aneurysm surgery while running his finger along the coronal suture of the skull. The sutures, even though completely natural, look like the result of a ghastly experiment, a road carved on the whitish bone by some instrument of torture. A road of bones. 

John tries not to think about the surgery, which is difficult because it's the very thing they have been summoned to discuss. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be the least bit bothered by the thought of someone sawing his head open, which of course is rather typical of Sherlock, but now that it's about his very own head, his precious brain, it feels more morbid than usual. Maybe it just hasn't properly sunk in yet, John reasons and straightens his spine on the uncomfortable chair.

Dr Berry sets the skull on the edge of his desk. Sherlock is still staring at it. 

"Any questions?" the surgeon asks, glancing at John. Sherlock grabs the skull and peers into its eyesocket. 

"Yeah, well, how long will he have to stay in?" John inquires.

"We can do the preoperative tests and studies on an outpatient basis. I see no need for Mr Holmes to be admitted until the morning of the surgery. It's been proven that avoiding excessive hospital stays unless absolutely necessary can lower the incidence of concomitant infections and deep venous thrombosis."

John nods. This is in line with some articles he has read recently. John glances at Sherlock. The man looks like he's retreated into his Mind Palace.

Dr Berry clears his throat and continues. "As I said, the aneurysm's location and size rule out endovascular coiling as a treatment option so we'll have to do it via an open operation. We are able to wean most of our patients from the ventilator and allow them to wake up right after surgery in the postanesthesia recovery unit where they will stay until the next morning. Transfer to a regular inpatient ward will usually happen the next day, complications notwithstanding. Most of our aneurysm patients discharge within five days."

"Unacceptable," replies Sherlock, who has shaken out of his reverie, and gingerly places the skull back on the table. "I have a live-in-doctor as you are well aware, so you will be able discharge me much sooner."

"I'm not a neurosurgeon, Sherlock. I don't know what to look for in terms of what is or is not normal during the recovery," John says apologetically.

"Your skills were perfectly adequate to discern what was happening to me. I don't see why you couldn't handle the aftermath."

Dr Berry smiles apologetically. "I'm sure Dr Watson is most capable. However, it would be quite stressful for him to be responsible for your well-being."

John's laughter sounds hollow. "I'm responsible for that most of the time anyway, since this idiot won't look after himself properly."

Dr Berry pats Sherlock's arm emphatically and Sherlock's gaze narrows which is usually a bit not good in John's experience. "Well, then, let's give John here a bit of a break, shall we?" the surgeon suggests.

Sherlock lets out a breath and luckily seems to have decided not to push the issue.

"Anything else you'd like to ask or wish for us to know?" Dr Berry asks, idly leafing through Sherlock's medical records.

Sherlock draws in a deep breath. "I wish for Dr Watson to assist in the surgery."

John stands up before even realizing he is doing so. "Sherlock, no! First of all, they won't let me and second of all, I can't bloody well be responsible for slicing into your brain. Don't you realize how that'd make me feel? Which part of "I'm not a neurosurgeon" didn't you register?!"

Sherlock's looks indignant. "How _you_ would feel, hm? How about me, John? Trusting my most important asset to strangers?"

"When have Mycroft's sources about these sorts of things ever failed? If they say that Dr Berry is the finest in the country then we should probably trust him."

Sherlock doesn't seem to buy into this theory. "What about the rest of the team, then? The anaesthetist? The scrub nurse? Who will guarantee that I won't be stuck with some Shipley-wannabe or someone hung over enough to have shaky hands?"

"I assure you, I work with a team who I've had a long and fruitful working relationship with. They have all the skills required to handle this type of surgery," Dr Berry replies.

"No trainees?"

"No trainees", Dr Berry assures him. 

Sherlock nods tentatively. "Nevertheless, I wish to have a recording of the operation."

"Sherlock, again, no," John sighs. Dr Berry looks apologetic.

"You're saying that after going through all of this ordeal I won't get anything tangible of scientific interest for further reference?" Sherlock is glaring daggers at both doctors.

John gently lays his palm on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock - - I wish you'd just focus on this thing itself. On getting better."

"I am not currently poorly, so there is nothing to get better from. If I need to be inconvenienced, I wish to dictate the terms."

"You can't dictate how the NHS works, Sherlock," John points out. Why did he ever think Sherlock would not get difficult? Was he really that naive after all this time? Barely three months had passed since he'd sat in the dining room of that inn in Dartmoor, listening to a panic-stricken, manic, trembling Sherlock bellow how bloody allright and fine he was, despite all the evidence to the contrary. 

Sherlock stands up, extends his hand to Dr Berry and after a hasty handshake, he walks out without a word, John trailing behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes: I don't work for the NHS but I assume certain principles can be generalized when it comes to European medical practice. In general, letting doctors observe or participate in the procedures or other kind of treatment of their loved ones usually never happens (apart from small things like writing prescriptions for minor ailments or giving the occasional advice, which we do all the time and doesn't usually bother us). It's not only because of patient might be nervous or the doctor's role might be difficult to maintain in that situation - it's because being responsible for the health and life of someone you is incredibly stressful for a doctor in a very particular way because people who know you see past your professional role.
> 
> Ultrasound is slowly revolutionizing many fields of medicine. The so-called difficult-to-cannulate-patients no longer pose the problems they used to, because if we can't see the veins, we can locate them by ultrasound and cannulate them while visualizing the needle going through the tissues. In reality it's quite unlikely that John would have had a portable ultrasound available in Afghanistan but hey, for the purposes of this story, why not? 
> 
> If aneurysms are big enough or located in a critical area, they might cause symptoms even without rupturing. Unfortunately, for many patients, the very first symptoms of an aneurysm is a so-called SAH (sub-arachnoid hemorrhage), a specific type of brain bleed, the effects of which are commonly devastating and often lethal. Sherlock can therefore actually consider himself kind of lucky here (not that he'd see it that way, of course!). Cerebrovascular problems (which is a fancy name for stroke, TIA and other pathological states of brain vessels) can be difficult for patients to come to terms with because many patients might be asymptomatic and still require urgent hospitalization or major surgery. Sherlock is usually described as a terrible patient who tends to be in denial even about major injuries, but I think if there was something threatening his mental capacities - his precious brain - he'd agree to fix the problem instead of trying to sweep the whole thing under the rug. But yes, he would still not be the most agreeable of patients. Poor John.
> 
> Many aneurysms nowadays can be treated by endovascular coiling, where a radiologist passes a small guidewire into the aneurysm sac and fills it with a metal wire coil. This causes the body's natural blood clotting system to form a clot inside the aneurysm, effectively filling it so that blood will no longer circulate inside the aneurysm. However, not all aneurysms are eligible for coiling - it might be because of type or size, or that the neck of the aneurysm if too wide for the coil to work satisfactorily. That leaves open surgery the only option in Sherlock's case.


	3. The careful fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock throws himself into researching aneurysms. Mycroft and Sherlock enjoy an amicable cup of tea and agree on something, which John considers very alarming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken a lot of liberties with UK legislation concerning will and inheritance in this chapter. If you'd like to learn how things would work in the real world, check out the comments section where some lovely readers have dropped by to provide additional info.

>   
>  **_You were always weird but I never had to hold you by the edges  
>  Like I do now  
>  \- The National_**

 

John had assumed that there would not be much discussion on the subject of Sherlock's illness during the following days. His assumption turns out to be blatantly false. Sherlock seems to have thrown himself into the subject with almost a reckless abandon. He spends most of the morning googling things on John's laptop and pestering him to divulge all of his passwords to the online portals of prominent medical journals, 'it's faster than me guessing them and you know I will!'. 

John obliges, because he knows that any attempt to curb Sherlock Holmes's enthusiasm will only result in spectacular failure. 

John goes to Tesco's at noon, mainly to escape the manic energy that's consuming their flat. 

As he's walking back, carrying two bags of groceries that should last them until the following week, his phone chimes with a message. 

Lestrade.

SHERLOCK'S JUST TOLD ME HE'S TAKING A SABBATICAL?!?

John sets the bags down, leaning them onto a lamppost so they won't topple and spill their contents and dials Lestrade's number. 

He gets the DI on the line after just two rings. "What exactly did Sherlock tell you?" John asks him after a hasty greeting, acutely aware that despite Lestrade being a friend of sorts, Sherlock would not appreciate John divulging his medical issues to the DI without explicit consent.

"He texted me that he'll be taking no cases for two weeks since he's taking a bloody sabbatical. _Sherlock._ You know, the guy who appears at crime scenes both invited and uninvited, no matter if he's got pneumonia, a broken ankle or a concussion. Anything I'm missing here?" 

"If I say I can't tell you, will you deduce enough from that to not ask any further questions?"

"He's sick then. Anything to do with what happened at the office?"

"I can't really tell you that, either." John grits his teeth. 

Lestrade curses at the other end. "Will he be alright, John?" He doesn't sound so much like a DI anymore, there's more genuine concern than what one would expect from a professional acquaintance. 

"In all likelihood, yes."

Lestrade is silent for a few seconds. "All I wanted to hear, mate. Tell him get well soon."

"He'd hate that," John reminds Lestrade, who chuckles. "Exactly."

They exchange enough smalltalk for it to be socially acceptable to end the call. John wanders back home, taking his time since the weather is pleasant for a change. When he enters the apartment, Sherlock is waiting in the foyer. He's holding his phone, which he then determinedly offers to John.

"Let me put these away first." Usually it's Sherlock who's hoarding everyone else's electronics, not offering his own around. John decides that whatever this is, he's probably not going to like it. 

Sherlock follows him around the kitchen like a shadow as he unpacks the groceries.

"What do I need your phone for?" John asks and gingerly picks up the phone from Sherlock's extended palm after sticking the milk in the fridge next to the congealed-looking human plasma samples.

"You're going to call Mycroft."

John plonks the phone on the kitchen table. "No. You need to do this yourself." He's aware that apart from a text message from John from the A&E, the big brother has not been given a significant amount of information concerning the situation.

"Why?"

"Well he's your brother, for starters." John wipes some crumbs off the kitchen table with the side of his palm, giving Sherlock a decidedly stern look. This time he needs to not get bullied into doing stuff Sherlock just can't be bothered with. This is too important.

Sherlock throws up his arms in annoyance. "What's that got to do with it?"

John sighs. "Trust me, he'd appreciate hearing it from you. Not that you ever do stuff for that reason, of course," John reminds himself out loud. 

"He'll ask questions. There will be _concern_."

"Questions you can then answer. And the concern you can ignore, if it annoys you. Lord knows you are kind of great at tuning things out. I assume you remember being told by Dr Berry that since there are no other cases in your immediate family, Mycroft doesn't need to be screened."

"I am sure he'll get that done, anyway," Sherlock scoffs, "after he's done trying to meddle in my health issues."

"Of course people will worry. It's completely normal and natural."

Sherlock crosses his arms. "It's infuriating, coming from him."

"Well, focus on the facts, then. Answer his questions."

"I think you will be more suited to that. You are quite proficient in explaining medical things."

John gives the phone a little push on the table, and it slides across the table to the side where Sherlock is standing. "I'd like to get that in writing," John jokes.

Sherlock picks up the phone reluctantly as if it were it's a poisonous snake and disappears into his bedroom, defeated.

 

 

"John!"

"Yeah?"

"Explain Tisseell."

"It's a tissue glue they sometimes use during surgery. Don't know how common that would be in aneurysm operations, though."

"John!" 

"Yes?"

"Get me your laptop."

"It's upstairs. Go get it yourself."

"I am aware of its location. Running up the stairs might raise my cerebral metabolic rate, which might be harmful."

"And running after London's criminal population hasn't done that? Sherlock, you've had this for a long time and nothing has happened before. Granted, there are symptoms now, but I'm not going to let you take this up as a new excuse to get even lazier or run me to the ground."

The sofa creaks as Sherlock settles into a new position. John continues doing the dishes for some minutes.

"John?"

"What?!"

"Does a vessel clip cause an immunological foreign particle reaction? Could that cause excessive tissue granulation?"

John dries his hands on a teatowel, enters the living room and sits down on the coffee table. He gently pries one of his New England Journal of Medicine issues from Sherlock's fingers. "Enough. Even if you read all there ever has been written about neurosurgery, you wouldn't have the experience and knowledge base to understand and anticipate everything that's related. If there's anything practical you want to know, just ask, but burying yourself in unnecessary details is only going to rile you up even further."

Sherlock huffs. "I am not 'riled up'." He spits the words out as if they tasted vile.

"Anyone would be kind of riled up at this stage."

"I'm not _anyone_."

"I know. Which is probably why I'd imagine you would get astronomically riled up because of something like this compared to normal people's normal riled up."

Sherlock lets out a slow breath. "Very well. I wasn't finding the answers I was looking for, anyway."

"Answers to which questions?"

Sherlock stands up, turns on his heel and disappears into his bedroom, banging the door closed behind him. 

John hides the medical journals.

 

 

 

John returns his novel to the library. It's not even due yet, but it's finished and he feels he needs a break from the agitated hurricane that Sherlock has become. Trying to hide the medical journals had been moot. Now most of John's personal collection of medical textbooks have taken over all available horizontal surfaces in the living room. Every time one of them gets dismissed due to not containing enough pertinent information, it gets tossed aside. One of them had skidded to a halt at John's feet when he'd gone to the kitchen to get a sandwich. He'd tried to open a dialogue about Sherlock destroying books he had paid good money for - _his_ money, that is, but Sherlock had been too preoccupied to listen. The only reply John had received was the word 'useless' exclaimed repeatedly while more of his books got mauled.

At the library John had debated whether to bring some medical tomes in for Sherlock's research but decided against it. They'd be on his library card, so their inevitable destruction would affect his bank balance.

He walks home empty-handed, idling by shop windows. Once he gets back to their apartment block he spots the knocker. It stands straight. 

Mycroft.

John decides to retreat to his own room as soon as possible. After the hectic morning he doesn't have the stomach to listen to the Holmes' eternal verbal sparring. 

To his surprise, there's no such thing going on. Instead he finds the brothers sharing a cup of tea. The sofa table has been cleared and on it lay a thin stack of official-looking documents.

Sherlock puts his cup down, looking much more calm and composed than how John had left him an hour earlier. "Ah, John. Excellent. I need you to sign something," Sherlock says, leaning back in his chair as John is taking off his coat.

Once John enters the living room, Sherlock passes him the stack of documents. 

John straightens the top page. It's a will. When the ramifications sink in, John swallows and lets his hand holding the documents fall to rest in his hip. "No. Not this."

Mycroft gingerly puts his cup down. "It's quite sensible, really."

Sherlock tries to pass John a fountain pen. "I need two witnesses. Mycroft agrees that - -"

John runs a hand through his hair. "_Mycroft agrees_? Bloody hell, Sherlock. When do the two of you ever agree on anything?" 

He leafs through the pages. The will looks professionally done and John figures that Mycroft has probably arranged the whole thing. There's an itemized list of which of Sherlock's books and lab equipment should go to which of his acquaintances. On the fourth page a paragraph reads that John Hamish Watson is entitled to any and all of his possessions before others and the itemized property list should only come to play should this John Watson decline the items listed. Apart from Sherlock's earthly possessions the will also lists procurement rights to their family estate which are to go to Mycroft.

So many different feelings go through John at once that he can't even begin to catalogue them. Mostly he is just left with a deep sense of unease. It feels like dancing on someone's grave. "Sherlock, no," he repeats. "I will not discuss this. You're going to get better, they will _fix_ you, and we can forget all about this."

Mycroft looks at him curiously and for some reason John just wants to throttle him. "John, as a medical professional I'm sure you are aware of the risks of such an operation."

"Absolutely," John replies icily, "But a doctor can never act around any pre-surgical patient as though they were about to die so I'm not going to do that with him," he glances at Sherlock, whose expression is oddly detached.

"I'd never have pegged a former army doctor to be fond of this sort of theatrical naivete," Mycroft comments with an infuriatingly pleasant tone.

John places the documents on the table. "Look, I'll sign it if you need me to. But I need to believe that things are going to be okay. For my own sake and Sherlock's, too. If I can't keep positive, how the hell is he supposed to be able to?"

Mycroft stands up to leave and Sherlock courteously passes the man his briefcase. It's still very strange for John to see the Holmes brothers as this unified front. Unified by the concept of Sherlock's possible demise. It's wrong, John thinks. So very wrong.

"He doesn't need to be positive," Mycroft remarks dryly,"He merely needs to go through with it."

John's fingers squeeze into a fist. Luckily his walk has relieved his stress enough to keep his composure. 

They bid Mycroft farewell. 

Sherlock then flits away to his bedroom and shuts the door. 

John locks the front door and shakes his head. He's got a headache now that feels like a premonition. Like the strange tightness in the head during a hot summer day right before a thunderstorm hits.

John signs the will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prominent study reported a 3.8% mortality (=how many patients die) rate and a 12.0% morbidity (=how many patients suffer a major decline in their functionality) rate for operative treatment of unruptured aneurysms. When taking into account that up to 50% of patients whose aneurysms rupture die within thirty days, surgery for an unruptured aneurysm is definitely a better bet than taking one's chances with an unruptured one. Compared with many other surgical procedures, this type of surgery does not carry excessive mortality or mortality rates, so Sherlock's will-writing, although sensible per se, might sound a bit like overpreparation. It might be a coping strategy - trying to come to terms with even this small chance of dying. A pessimist will never be disappointed... It understandably upsets John, though.
> 
> In some cases there is a genetic disposition to aneurysms. I have somewhat simplified this issue in the story. Sherlock doesn't have relatives who've had a similar issue, and he only has a singular aneurysm, making the risk of this running in their family somewhat lower. Further information on the subject can be found at etc, http://www.bafound.org/family-history


	4. Foundations not built to last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourself, John. The inevitable meltdown is coming.

> __**Is there a powder to erase this?  
>  ** **Is it dissolvable and tasteless?**  
>  **You can't imagine how I hate this**  
>  \- The National 

Two days later Sherlock gets caught trying to secretly phone the surgical unit from the loo. When John finds out the reason, he becomes very silent. But there is also a strange sort of sadness that he feels. 

"Sherlock, why?" John's tone is somewhat contained but his expression still betrays his anger.

"Why what?"

"Why are you trying to reschedule? Do you need more time to prepare? I get it, I do, but I wish you would have at least included me in the discussion."

"That is precisely what I wished to avoid."

"Having more time to prepare?" John looks apprehensive.

Sherlock sits down and sighs. "Involving you."

Anger dissipates from John's face, alarm taking its place. "You didn't want me to know? Or be there?"

As elusive as the emotional dilemmas of others usually are to Sherlock, John thinks even he must realize someone might consider this insulting. 

John sits down next to Sherlock on the sofa, aware that his flatmate - who usually doesn't shy away from confrontation - is decidedly not looking at him. "Sherlock?"

"This fussing and hovering. It's hateful," Sherlock whines, the pitch of his voice rising as he raises his arms in frustration. "If something went wrong I would prefer to have made arrangements for you to never have to see it."

"See what? Sherlock, what are you trying to say?"

Sherlock finally raises his chin but still avoids meeting John's gaze. "If there was a complication, you would be able to preserve your memories of me as I am now, instead of tainting them with something... less."

John's palms fly up to Sherlock's shoulders, forcing him to turn slightly so that they are finally fully facing one another. "Sherlock, listen. If something went wrong, I would never, NEVER let you go through any of it alone."

"It would be painful for you." It's almost a question, and John suddenly wants nothing more badly than to hug his friend. He doesn't know how Sherlock would react so he abstains.

"As you sort of reminded me at the hospital, sod my feelings when it's you who's actually going through this. You're lovely for thinking so much about me in all of this - -" John pauses after realizing his wording. "Even if you tried to keep me out I'd still be there. I would arm-wrestle Mycroft, if need be."

"Not much of a feat, defeating that pompous office clerk."

John chuckles. "I know you hate my fussing like you hate all others signs of humanity. Just bear with me, yeah? Give me this much so I'll have something to do. Think of it as similar to your experiments when there's not a case on. I don't have enough worthwhile stuff to do so I fuss over you?" John suggests amicably.

Sherlock mulls this over and nods. "Very well." He still looks quite forlorn. 

Oh sod it. John hugs him with vigour and after momentarily stiffening in his arms, Sherlock finally melts into his embrace. This is how they stay until Sherlock disentangles himself without a word and disappears into his bedroom.

 

 

"They already did the MRI with contrast dye. Why do I need angiography, since they won't be able to coil the aneurysm?" 

John swallows down a spoonful of cornflakes. "I'd assume that since MRI and CT studies are pretty much two-dimensional, an angiogram might enable them to plan the surgery better. They can do all kinds of neat 3D models from angiograms."

Sherlock nods and twirls his spoon in his fingers. As usual, he's not eating much even though he'd been very specific about the amount of sugar and milk he wants in his cereal. 

John has noticed Sherlock fiddling with things a lot more than usual. He often does this when distracted, but lately it seems that it's been done in a more aware, a more deliberate pattern. 

"I'm sure we could get them to put whatever modeling they do from the scans onto a DVD. Closest you can get to seeing your own brain, I guess." He smiles at Sherlock, expecting the man to be delighted at the thought. Instead Sherlock is staring down into his breakfast bowl where his portion of sugarfrosted corn flakes are becoming soggier by the minute. John himself prefers toast for breakfast, but he sometimes buys these sugary things in order to sneak some calories into Sherlock. 

John wonders if the man is just tired. He had woken up several times during the night due to Sherlock's walking around the flat and making assorted racket. A good night's sleep was probably not going to be a possibility for John until all this was over.

During the past few days he'd seen Sherlock's mood alternate between borderline manic fascination and a pensive silence. The surgery was still three days away. During the best of times Sherlock was not very open or aware about his feelings, so getting him to talk was not an easy feat. John couldn't shake the nagging feeling that if he couldn't get Sherlock to air any of his worries they might come out at some less-opportune time in a destructive manner. 

"Have you been getting any sleep?" John asks, trying to sound as though it's just chitchat.

"I get by with little sleep. You know this," Sherlock reminds him.

"It'd be good to be rested before the surgery," John suggests. Sherlock glares at him and John isn't sure why. They'd come to an agreement about the _hovering_ as Sherlock calls it, and it's not like John is demanding an exhaustive routine of healthy habits.

"I will be put under general anesthesia. I don't think lack of sleep beforehand will matter," comes the dismissive reply.

Sherlock then stands up and goes to puts his bowl in the sink. 

John realizes there's another thing that he probably needs to nag about. He decides to bite the bullet. Might as well. It's not as he expects Sherlock's mood to improve. "Your bloodwork came through. Nothing that would make you not eligible for surgery, but it's something that we need to look into."

"What?" Sherlock sits back down.

"Your hemoglobin levels are below what would be considered normal for a male your age." 

Sherlock leans his elbows on the table which brings him better into the light streaming from the window and John is reminded of how pale he is. On the other hand, he has looked the same all the time that John has known the man. 

"Normal values for any laboratory test are determined using gaussian function curves created by studying healthy volunteers. At any given time, about ten percent of the healthy population places somewhere above or below the normal ranges. I did assume they teach basic statistical analysis in medical school?"

"Don't lecture me about my lectures. If you were a teenage girl the explanation would be easy but with a thirtysomething male the cause of iron deficiency anemia is usually dietary. "

"Iron deficiency?"

"Your red cells are comparatively small and your transferrine receptor levels three times the norm."

Sherlock seems to lack his usual witty retort.

"I talked to Dr Berry and since it's unlikely any dietary change would have enough time to replenish your stores before the surgery they'll give you a dose of intravenous iron during the operation. Mind you, we'll still need to fix your diet afterwards."

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"Just thought you might want to know. Usually you want to know everything."

Sherlock ascends from the chair. "That reminds me - -" he muses, heading towards the living room.

John sighs as Sherlock returns to his mountain of books and papers. He almost reminds Sherlock not to eat anything after ten in the evening due to the following morning's angiography but then he realizes it's probably unnecessary. He can't remember the last time he's actually managed to get Sherlock to eat anything.

 

 

 

John tosses and turns under his duvet. The house is silent and there's no reason for him not to get some well-earned sleep if one didn't take into account the ball of nerves that was Sherlock. Glued to the screen of his laptop, his replies to John's attempts at communication had degenerated into grunts and irritated handwaves in the course of the evening. This was not unusual, since it was Sherlock, but John just knew there was more to it than his usual 'I don't talk for days on end'.

Not even an offer of Cluedo had produced any sort of results so John had eventually retreated to his bedroom, defeated. All he could do now was be present if he was needed. 

Mycroft had phoned earlier to enquire if John was accompanying Sherlock for the angiography. He'd explained that no, he would not be, since Sherlock had sternly assured him he would be quite fine on his own. Something made John doubt this, but what could he do? Showing up without asking would only make Sherlock feel mollycoddled which never resulted in anything constructive. There was a whole hospital full of qualified people available if need be, John had told himself but he knew he was kidding himself. If this was any other human being they were talking about than his mad flatmate... It was only an angiogram and not a bigger procedure but it would still be an invasive procedure that would require Sherlock not to freak out over all that was worrying him. Because tomorrow, it would no longer be just theoretical. It would be very tangible and very real.

John pummels his pillow into a more suitable shape. Outside his room, the silence continues. Maybe Sherlock is sleeping, John suggests to himself hopefully, but realizes it is probably just very, very wishful thinking.

 

 

 

 

At three in the morning, someone barges violently into John's room, making the hinges groan as the door is forced open before the lever has been pushed all the way down. John almost falls from the bed as he is thrown into alarm mode while still disorientated and sleepy. It only takes a second, however, for him to get his bearings and realize the intruder is none other than Sherlock. 

It's dark apart from the dim light from the staircase so he only sees Sherlock's silhouette. He seems to be holding a large, flat object that is giving off an artificial glow. A laptop, John realizes.

John scrambles to his feet and switches on his bedside lamp. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock strides into the room and lifts the laptop, turning it so that John can see the muted video playing on the screen. 

"Jesus, Sherlock. I'm sure that Youtube would have still been there in the morning."

He's looking at Sherlock, when Sherlock clearly wants him to follow the screen. At least the man is gesturing frantically towards it. "Look, John!"

It's one of the streaming service's ubiquitous surgical videos. An aneurysm is being clipped on a microscopic view. The surgical field is nearly bloodless and everything looks very peaceful and orderly.

"What am I looking for, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looks at him like he's an idiot. This is not unusual, but his expression is even more incredulous than usual. And a little too manic to John's taste.

"0.22 millimetres, John! Fucking 0.22 millimetres!"

Alarm bells go off in John's head. Sherlock _never_ uses profanities. Not unless it's an emergency.

Sherlock drops the laptop on John's duvet and stands up, tearing at his dark curls so violently that it looks painful. "0.22," he exhales and squeezes his eyes shut.

John is still looking at the video, trying desperately to see what the deal is. Finally, he looks at at Sherlock, who has begun pacing back and forth on a small patch of linoleum. 

"You're gonna have to help me out here, Sherlock. What am I looking for? What's wrong?"

Sherlock skids to a halt. "0,22 millimetres, John! Just that until it's all gone to hell! The phone rings, someone leans on the table, a radiographic wire advanced a millimetre too far and it punctures a wall, there's a fire alarm test, surgeon has had to make do with only two cups of caffeinated beverages instead of his usual three, loose screw on the microscope, trainee cleaner who has left a floor tile dirty and slippery, surgeon with a left knee arthrosis with fluctuating pain levels!"

John puts two and two together. "You're worried about complications?"

Sherlock's breathing is ragged. "'The average aneurysm sack wall a wall thickness of 0,22 millimetres between the lumen and the outside. Through the translucent wall circulating red cells can be observed in the microscopic view - -'" he quotes verbatim, probably from one of John's medical textbooks. His rant is cut short, however, when he suddenly starts gasping for air. "It's too thin - - John! It's too thin and I can't - -"

John recognizes what this is. It's painful to watch because he knows so very well how what it feels like.

"Hey? Hey, listen. Sherlock? It's okay, it's just a panic attack, it'll pass. Try and breathe a little slower, yeah?"

There's no reply. Sherlock is clutching onto his sides, pupils widened. 

John circles around him and wraps his arms around Sherlock's shoulders from behind. He knows full well why this is happening but it doesn't make it any less heartbreaking to watch. 

Before he manages to get out any of the reassuring and nonsensical things he means to say, he's forced to descend to floor level along with Sherlock who is collapsing, legs giving away as he is now shaking with long, racking sobs and still gasping for air.

They end up sitting on the floor, John cradling Sherlock in his arms. John doesn't say anything for awhile, aware that Sherlock is too hysterical to listen. Still, John needs to do something about the breathing before Sherlock passes out from hyperventilating. John closes his eyes and holds on tighter, hoping this might somehow distract Sherlock enough. He whispers something about breathing and everything being fine and tries to sound as convincing as he possibly can but it all sounds so rubbish. 

Nothing about this is fine. He's seen Sherlock under duress, upset, angry and very, very worried but never like this - in the solid grip of a fear so primal he can't reason himself out of it. No matter how much knowledge he amasses, how many wills he arranges to be drawn or how many times he manages not to throttle Mycroft over a cup of tea, the facts remain. 

Minutes pass. How many, John doesn't know or particularly care.

Finally Sherlock seems to calm down, at least marginally. At least he composes himself enough to blow his nose on one of John's t-shirts that had been discarded and forgotten underneath the bed. 

"Okay?" John asks and gets a nod. John pushes away a sweaty lock of curls that is hanging in front of Sherlock's eyes. 

Slowly, gradually John withdraws his arms and they both stand up. 

The room feels colder and draftier than it did before. Maybe it's because they've been sitting on the floor. Or maybe it's because he's just spent at least fifteen minutes holding onto a living, breathing and warm Sherlock. Or maybe it's because he's no longer doing that even though he wants to. Very much so, indeed.

Sherlock's nose is still running and had the whole scene not been so frightening and strange, John would think his friend looked a bit silly. 

Something about the whole thing feels so intimate that it makes John wary of what to say. "Tired?" he offers, remembering how his own PTSD-fuelled night terrors always seemed to deplete him of energy. They were different to this, of course - the aftereffects of horrors long gone, whereas this was Sherlock not being able to cope with the stress of what was still in the future.

Sherlock nods and lets out a long, ragged breath. 

"No more Youtube. And that's final. No more articles. This is the one thing you can't deduce." John's tone is soft but determined.

Sherlock bites his lip. 

"And another thing that's non-negotiable. Tomorrow morning we both leave for the hospital, and I'm going to make damned sure they knock you out for the angiography."

"Not necessary," Sherlock replies quietly. His voice is hoarse from the crying.

"I said non-negotiable." John takes Sherlock's hand and pulls him up as John stands up himself. Sherlock doesn't leave, instead just remains in place as though unsure what to do.

John makes the decision for the both of them. He switches off the lamp, closes the door and then coaxes Sherlock to lie on the bed. John positions himself on the opposite side of the bed and pulls the duvet over the both of them, leaving his right arm on top of the duvet and Sherlock. 

Sherlock closes his eyes. "This bothers you, us sharing a bed," he says. It's not a question, more of an observation.

"Not now, Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Sherlock discovers about aneurysms here is true. The vessel wall can be as thin as that! I've had the privilege of participating in this type of surgery and it's the most amazing thing I have ever seen in my life. In the microscope you see the circulating red blood cells that are inside the vessel through the vessel wall. I have the highest respect for neurosurgeons. I could never handle the stress of having that sort of responsibility with such a small margin of error. 
> 
> Many patients google and read a lot of medical stuff pertaining to their illnesses. It's good that they want to know more about their ailments, but without proper context in the form of a medical education, some things can unnecessarily frighten them. I think Sherlock would try to cope like this - try to tame this beast intellectually, but it doesn't really help cope with the reality that his life and his mental acuities might be in jeopardy. If patients know about every type of risk beforehand it might make them more understanding if a complication happens, but on the other hand it might cause them to worry too much about things that are very, very unlikely to happen. 
> 
> As John mentions here, radiologists can use computer models to create rotating 3D models of brain vasculature. Effortless for the patient they are not, however. Cerebral angiography requires passing a guidewire into a major blood vessel from the groin or the upper extremity and advancing it into the starting point of the main arteries that service the brain. It's an invasive procedure not without its risks, and many patients are understandably nervous about it.


	5. Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock try to cope with the last hours before surgery.

> _**O light the candle, John  
>  The daylight has almost gone  
> \- Loreena McKennitt** _

London is shrouded in fog, through which the last orange rays of sunlight are glowing. It isn't dark enough to necessitate turning on the lights yet.

John absent-mindedly gathers some things off the floor - haphazardly discarded books, some orphaned socks, Sherlock's magnifying glass. Then he walks the fourteen steps he knows there are between the living room and Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock once made him memorize all the important distances in their flat - 'when there's a home invasion you'd definitely want to know your way around in the dark'. Not 'if', 'when'. 

'Could be dangerous, SH' John smiles. Would he have turned on his heels if he'd known how his life would change? Not in a million years.

Now there was a very real possibility that after that evening, the absence and the emptiness of his life prior to Sherlock would return. Or worse - Sherlock might return severely disabled, mentally unrecognizable. In that case John had no doubt that he would stay - no matter how badly things went it would still be him, it would still always be Sherlock to him, but he knew that the acute awareness of what Sherlock had lost would break his heart again and again.

As a doctor John knew better than to promise things he couldn't guarantee, but for once he wished he could just say out loud those ridiculous consolations, 'it'll be fine, you'll be as right as rain in no time'. 

If this was how he was feeling, he couldn't even begin to comprehend the enormity of what his strange friend on the other side of the door would be going through. 

John knocks. Sherlock opens the door, holding a coat hanger with a neatly ironed dress shirt. "Yes?"

"Packing?" John inquires and pads into the room. 

There's a suitcase on the bed, only half-filled with assorted clothes. Sherlock runs a hand through his hair. "What _does_ one pack for an occasion like this? I assume I'll be required to wear those ghastly gowns anyway?"

John shrugs. "Probably. Or a hospital-issue pyjama. You still might want your own socks, underwear, dressing gown. Maybe a book."

Sherlock eyes him suspiciously. "You think I'll be in a state to read afterwards?"

"Not during the first couple of days, no. But when they let you into the regular ward you might want to have a pastime other than twiddling your thumbs." Or wringing your hands nervously, as he notices Sherlock has been doing when he has thought John has not been looking. Or fingering his sleeves nervously. Or tapping his fingers on his knees when his nervous energy has been getting the better of him.

"I don't twiddle, John."

John notices Sherlock has already placed most of the items he has mentioned into the suitcase. He grabs Sherlock's wrists and starts coaxing him out of the room. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"We need to plan the evening. Cluedo or crap telly? Movie or books? Get our mind off things?"

Sherlock gently pries his hands from John's grip. "Perhaps a movie?"

John flashes him a relieved smile. He knows just the thing.

 

 

Halfway through the classic Agatha Christie adaptation John realizes Sherlock hasn't said a word since the film had begun rolling. "Sherlock?" he tries.

"Mm," comes a half-hearted reply. Sherlock's eyes are directed towards the screen but he seems distracted. 

"Who's the murderer?"

The mention of murder seems to startle Sherlock out of his reverie. "What?" He begins studying John's expressions like he's missed something. 

Like half of the film, John thinks. "Who did it?"

Sherlock blinks. "I have no idea."

John looks worried. "Who's the victim?"

Sherlock glances at the screen. "A... Person - - I don't bloody well know, alright!" He stands up, sending the throw pillow he'd been nursing on his lap flying towars to kitchen. "I don't know! I can't think, I can't concentrate, I can't deduce - this, this thing is already disintegrating everything!"

"Please sit down." 

Sherlock doesn't comply. He looks like he's looking for something to break.

John pauses the film and swallows. At least there's some sort of a reaction, now. He'd both amazed and slightly worried of the steely way in which Sherlock had been keeping himself together after last night's meltdown. " It's normal to be nervous, not be able to concentrate. Anyone would be - -"

Sherlock turns to him, eyes blazing with rage. "I. Am. Not. Just. Anyone."

John is not taken aback. It's not the first time he's had to face Sherlock like this. "I know, I know, just - - You know what I mean. It's just a turn of phrase."

Sherlock slumps back down onto the sofa, suddenly looking rather defeated. "I still wish you'd stop using such derogatory terms."

"Maybe it would take the edge off if you used some profanity yourself."

Sherlock scoffs. "Much good that would do."

"There's not much good that anything would do at this point. I know it's the worst, hours ticking slowly away and you hoping it would all be done with already."

Sherlock studies his face. "That's not what I'm hoping."

"What, then?"

"I can't think of any of these things that people are supposed to want or wish to do before they die. No last meals spring to mind either. It's hateful, the way I am spending these hours, not doing anything worthwhile."

"Stop dying then, you idiot, since there's no reason to assume you will," John scolds him. Talking of such things might be therapeutic as black humour but it has begun to severely grate John's nerves. "I actually was kind of hoping you'd consider a quiet night in with me worthwhile," John suggests, and tries not to sound offended. He isn't really. He got used to Sherlock's abrasive style long ago.

Sherlock, however, now looks a bit startled and apologetic. "I do, and it's not what I meant. I should be able to enjoy tonight, knowing what will happen tomorrow."

"Not even you, Mr Control-Alt-Delete, can stop worrying by pressing some mental button. And it's not your last night on earth."

"You don't know that."

"Nor do people usually know that we're going to wake up in the morning and not suffer any of the many things that could kill us in the night but still we go to sleep as though there isn't a care in the world. This whole peace of mind thing is based on selective ignorance, Sherlock."

"That is surprisingly insightful, coming from you."

"Thank you, I guess. Any symptoms today?" he asks as cheerfully as he can. He's been on constant alert to assess Sherlock's behaviour in case something seems off and he needs to consider the possibility that there's a new development with the aneurysm. Luckily there have only been a couple of short visual disturbances and one occasion during which Sherlock had had trouble buttoning up his shirt but since they had resolved so quickly it was evident that there hadn't been a rupture. 

Sherlock shakes his head. 

"How _do_ you feel, really, about tomorrow?" John asks.

"As though I'm about to be abducted by aliens."

"I know what you mean. I've been living with one for awhile now. It's crazy." John smiles.

Sherlock manages to smile back. "Cheap shot."

John laughs.

Sherlock, however, doesn't even smile. "Like I'm about to walk to the gallows and can't figure out what to wear."

"It's not the gallows, Sherlock, and I doubt they will care what you wear. I get it, though, you feel like walking into a situation where you're not in control and don't know how to behave."

Sherlock looks at him carefully. "Maybe."

John nods. This is a big admission. For once, Sherlock isn't snarking back, deflecting, going off on a tangent or simply leaving. Instead, he seems to be expecting further conversation. John decides to relish the opportunity.

"I know hospitals annoy you to no end. People often feel staff treat patients like something between an adult and a child, patients have to endure things they can't reasonably decline even though it's their legal right to do so, stuff hurts and the food is terrible. The fact that you of all people understand so much of your own illness but still won't be able to fully participate in the decision-making probably drives you up the wall. Still, even though I've seen the worst of it from the inside, I trust the system when it counts. I trust it to take you in, fix the problem and return you to me mostly in working condition."

Sherlock's eyes go wide. "_Mostly_?!"

"Youre bound to lose at least three and a half brain cells." John tries to look as sad as he can, ba glint of mischief visible in his eyes. "You'll still have about a billion more left than the rest of us."

Sherlock sighs, but there is a hint of a smile in his expression. 

 

 

They soldier on with the crap telly. Two hours later, John is flabbergasted to discover Sherlock has fallen asleep on the sofa. Perhaps the nights of not sleeping and days of not eating are finally getting to him. Trust Sherlock to react to things the opposite way than anyone else would - most patients didn't manage to sleep much before surgery. 

John quietly goes to Sherlock's room to fetch the duvet and covers his sleeping flatmate with it, hoping that this uncharacteristic slumber would last at least a couple of hours. And that it would stop feeling so alarming. Because it does. John knows Sherlock has been running himself to the ground. It doesn't bode well for him to be this exhausted before surgery. He needs all his strength for the recovery.

 

 

 

"Right," John says because Sherlock is stalling and they need to leave. "Taxi's here," he also says to further his point and grabs Sherlock's suitcase.

Sherlock finally emerges from his room, dressed impeccably as usual in a suit and a pressed white shirt. Silently he grabs his coat, lifts it so that he can slip into it and finalizes the look by carefully tying his scarf with the same, automatic movements he always makes. John watches while trying to keep his worries under control.

_This is not the last time you will see him do that._

_It's all going to be fine._

_Get a grip, Watson. He needs you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many patients arrive at the hospital impeccably dressed, hair carefully arranged and in full makeup. It's a bit unnecessary, since they won't get to wear their own clothes and a surgery will usually result in hairstyles going flat and makeup running. Perhaps it's a way in which patients can try to preserve a sense of control over their lives and the preservation of their sense of self in the bleak hospital environment. For someone as fiercely independent as Sherlock being forced to surrender his fate to the hands of others would likely be a very unsettling experience.


	6. Preoperative assessment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is admitted into the hospital and meets his anaesthetist. John is in for an unpleasant surprise.

> _**You're the tall kingdom I surround  
>  Think I'd better follow you around  
>  \- The National** _

John muses about how similar the hospital admittance process is to checking into a hotel. Elective surgery, in his mind, is odd that way - you walk in, right as rain, and in the afternoon emerge from the operating theatre in much worse shape. 

All of the previous times that he'd accompanied his mad flatmate into a hospital there had been some sort of an emergency, usually due to Sherlock clashing with one of London's criminal elements. Now the situation is more serene, more deliberate, and John decides he would choose any emergency over this. At least those times there had been something that he could do, something concrete, like holding a gauze to a bleeding stab wound or adjusting the oxygen flow in the mask when Sherlock caught Legionella from that abandoned silo and didn't see fit to mention this foray to John before his lung capacity had plummeted to dangerous levels. 

Now all John could do was hover. 

John mostly knows what to expect as he had assisted in some less intense neurosurgery during his training days, but since this is a much bigger operation he doesn't have a clear picture of what sort of condition he could expect Sherlock to be in during the first hours after the surgery. 

They are escorted to a smallish patient room with only one hospital bed in a stepdown ICU specializing in neurosurgery. John walks to the window as Sherlock is changing into the bleak, white, backless gown he's been issued. 

"How do I look?" Sherlock asks in mock seriousness as John turns away from the window.

"Like a right arse. Now get in," he replies and points at the bed. He glances at the clock and digs the letter they received from the hospital out of his trouser pocket. "It says here you're to meet the consulting anaesthetist right about now. A Dr S-L Arendse."

"Silent e or ending with an s?" Sherlock enquires.

"Silent e."

"South Africa, most likely. South Africa's system of medical education is modelled after Britain, so quality of training should be on par with ours. Most likely female. South African professional culture demographics dictate that women who wish to enrol in an operative field are more likely to be anaesthetists than surgeons. And more South African women move abroad than men."

John smiles. "Glad to see you're on top of your game." 

Sherlock does not reply, just tugs on his evidently uncomfortable gown. Soon he gives up this endeavour and sits up in bed. 

John swallows. The sight is wrong. Just wrong. Sherlock is not supposed to be in this bed. Or in this hospital. He's supposed to be at home. Or poking a corpse. Or standing atop a cliff somewhere in the countryside with his cheekbones turned to the wind. Or throwing a tantrum at Tesco's. Or stealing John's scone at Mrs Hudson's. 

Not here.

The letter crumples in his hand. 

Hold it together, Watson.

 

 

 

Ten minutes later a middle-aged, blonde woman enters without knocking. She's wearing scrubs, a yellow cotton cap with sunflowers and carrying a disposable water cup as well as a smaller transparent cup with a tablet in it. She also has a clipboard underneath her arm and upon entering she cocks her head to see read the first lines of the topmost document. "A Mr William Holmes?"

"Sherlock." John and Sherlock correct in unison and the woman raises her eyebrows. "That what they call you? Very well." 

She turns to John. "Dr John Watson? Listed as one of two emergency contacts?"

John nods.

"Which specialty?"

"Locum general practice currently. I spent three years with the RAMC. Did half a registrarship in trauma surgery prior."

Dr Arendse seems to size him up. Her expression is neutral and difficult to decipher, although John reasons Sherlock might still be able to. He always spots things that elude John. Always.

Dr Arendse puts the cups on the windowsill and walks next to the bed, extending her hand. Sherlock shakes it somewhat warily. "Sarah-Louise Arendse. Head of neuroanesthesia. I'll be your consultant today for the surgery and will also be monitoring you in the post-anaesthesia care unit where you will stay until the evening. The surgeon will also be visiting in the evening after the operation. You will also be seen by a neuropsychologist tomorrow, granted that everything will have gone routinely."

John watches Sherlock. He can practically see him memorizing all of this, arranging and analyzing information - all that he has just been told, but also all possible nonverbal cues he has just witnessed. Something has clearly piqued his interest, and not in a good way. 

"Neuropsychologist?" Sherlock inquires, carefully articulating each syllable.

Dr Arendse nods. "We've taken up the practice of a routine consultation for all our nonruptured aneurysm patients because studies have suggested that up to 40% of them might suffer from some type of cognitive deficiency after the operation. We are looking into whether this applies to our unit's patient population and if it lasts longer than a month."

"Cognitive dysfunction?"

"The phrase means a lowering of skills in memorizing, problem-solving - -" Dr Arendse pauses as Sherlock directs his iciest glare at her. 

"I know what the words mean. What escapes me is why I was not informed of this potential complication before."

John realizes he needs to defuse this, fast. "Dr Arendse? What sort of risk factors are there for such a problem?"

She shrugs somewhat coldly. "Patients over the age of 65 and those with significant pre-existing illnesses are deemed to be at risk."

John flashes Sherlock a smile he hopes to be as encouraging as possible. "See? I think you'll be in the clear," he suggests and gives Dr Arendse his own stern look that will hopefully make her take a hint.

She does, and clears her throat. "We do hope to assess all our patients in this manner, since only focusing on those at greater risk would skew the results."

"Very well."

"For your anaesthesia plan, I need to verify some information. You take no regular medications?"

"None."

"No allergies?"

"Correct."

"Any past heart conditions or respiratory issues I should be aware of?"

"Two bouts of pneumonia but nothing recently. One instance of supraventricular tachycardia in my youth they never found a particular reason for despite extensive testing. Has not recurred."

John raises his brows. "I didn't know that."

Sherlock sighs. "As I said, it was a one-time thing. What are those?" Sherlock nods at the window where the two cups are.

"I was told you received sedation for the angiography."

Sherlock looks away. John nods. "Premedication?"

"Midazolam. It's what we routinely use. Although Mr Holmes' substance abuse issues might mean that this dose is not going to have much of an effect."

Well that was blunt, John thinks. Sherlock usually likes blunt, at least when he's the one delivering the verbal barrage. Not such a fan of being on the receiving end, though.

Sherlock looks taken aback but not ready to explode. John tries another of his stern glares to signal Dr Arendse that it might be beneficial for all involved to can the subject, but this time she misses or ignores the message.

"When was the last time you've taken anything recreational, Mr Holmes? There are two accounts of admission for overdose on the records we received with your permission from St Barts."

John walks in between the bed and Dr Arendse. "He's been clean for years. I live with him - we're flatmates - I'd know."

Dr Arendse peers around John and John turns to face Sherlock as well. 

Sherlock looks like he's planning the perfect murder. To be committed in about thirteen seconds. He opens his mouth as though he's about to deliver one of his verbal deduction massacres first, though. John looks at him pleadingly, shaking his head. Sherlock closes his mouth.

"Is Dr Watson's information accurate, Mr Holmes?"

There is no reply.

Dr Arendse looks at both John and Sherlock curiously. "Look, if you're uncomfortable discussing this is front of Dr Watson, I'm sure he could go grab a coffee while we talk. I assumed since he's a colleague and listed both as your primary care physician and your emergency contact you would not object."

"John stays," Sherlock replies quickly. He no longer looks angry. To John's surprise he looks a little embarrassed, even. Apprehensive. 

The whole scene suddenly feels somehow off. Admittedly the anaesthetist had not beaten around the bush before approaching the subject and no one liked their dirty laundry aired in front of friends, but there was nothing that John didn't already know about Sherlock's history with drugs. Granted, he had not known the man while he'd still been using so had no personal experience but still. 

"Are you sure?" Dr Arendse asks. Sherlock nods, looking rather spent and resigned now.

"Very well. I need to hear this from you personally, because your lab work done four days after your emergency department visit was positive for opiates."

John slams his palm down onto the bed railing for moral support. "That can't be accurate. I've seen his two lab strips, he gave them to me himself, for Chrissakes!"

Dr Arendse looks apologetic and thumbs through the pages attached onto her clipboard. "They're on page three of the lab print."

They all take a moment. 

Finally, it's Sherlock who speaks. "It was a one-off five days ago. Before that, not a single occasion for four years."

John is shellshocked. Sherlock won't look at him.

"Which opiate? I need to know because this might affect your tolerance for the most common anaesthetics used." Dr Arendse enquires, her voice now softer than before. 

"Oxycodone."

"Very well. What about alcohol?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Only the occasional whisky while visiting friends."

"Smoking?"

Sherlock glances at John. "Quit a year ago."

John lets go of the bedrail. "Really? No 'one-offs' there?" he is unable to leave venom out of his tone.

"I think we've covered what I need. I'll give you two a moment before it's time."

Dr Arendse passes Sherlock the cups and he takes the tablet, swallowing two mouthfuls of water afterwards. The anaesthetist then prepares to leave, giving John a sympathetic glance. 

She leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock circles his blanket-covered knees with his arms. "I hope her medical skills trump her bedside manner."

John grabs a chair and sits. Because it feels like the right thing to do. At least he's not feeling like he might acutely break to pieces. 

Angry is better. 

Or not.

"You're upset," Sherlock suggests quietly. As though this is what he suspects but isn't entirely sure.

"Fucking fantastic deduction right there."

"I could start guessing but I think that would only make you more upset."

John suddenly realizes how tired he is. How tired they both must be. He looks at Sherlock, really looks at him, and some of the anger dissipates with the knowledge that there's likely only minutes left before they will be separated by three hospital floors and the heavy doors of an operating theatre. 

"Look, I just wish you'd have told me. That you felt like that. That you needed to - -" He drags the chair closer to the bed. "I'm just upset you didn't trust me enough to tell me."

Sherlock looks frustrated. "Because you'd be upset! And you already were!"

John is confused. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock is silent for a moment. This is the sort of thing that probably confounds him and something that is difficult for the man to verbalize, but Sherlock's own assessment is the only clue John has to at least try to understand. "You just went to bed. Every fucking night. And I couldn't. Because if I did, there's no guarantee that I would have ever woken up! There's no guarantee of anything. This thing - - " he tugs at his curls frantically "- - Could have gone off at any minute and I didn't want to waste any of them. And there was noone there who would have noticed if something went wrong. You just went to bed and left me and I couldn't sit still, I couldn't -- BE --!"

Sherlock looks clammy and is shaking slightly and John realizes he isn't very far from a second panic attack. John grabs hold of his wrists. "Alright, alright. Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock's eyelashes flutter for a second as he fights the urge to flee but in the end their gazes lock and this seems to dissipate some of the panic. 

"Good. Look, I get it. I'm so sorry if you needed me and I wasn't there. I get it, I really do. Did you have an emergency stash somewhere? One they never found during those drug busts?"

Sherlock draws in a ragged breath and then lets it out. His eyes are now looking slightly glassy and John realizes the tranquilizer is probably kicking in. "It's in one of your shoeboxes."

John lets out a hollow laugh and lets go of Sherlock's wrists. "Not for long it ain't. Look, we can discuss this later. Right now I need you to try and relax."

Sherlock is peering at him but he seems to be having slight trouble focusing. "You sound like a doctor. A really boring one."

"Great. Head on pillow, please."

For once in his life, Sherlock obeys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Past substance abuse does affect the way in which anaesthetic drugs are processed by the body. For instance, past opiate use might mean that a much larger dose of certain similar pain medications would be needed to achieve a desired effect. Excessive use of alcohol can raise individual requirements for the dosing of certain general anaesthetic substances or render benzodiazepine-type tranquilizers (such as the midazolam mentioned here) ineffective in normal doses. We can probably assume Sherlock hasn't used those recreationally, since here a regular dose makes him go out like a light.


	7. The road of bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Sherlock is taken to the OR John's fear finally gets the better of him. All he can do now is wait and try to keep himself together.

> _**Now my charms are all o'erthrown,  
>  And what strength I have’s mine own  
>  \- Shakespeare** _

The door closes with a quiet metallic clang and John feels suddenly so very lonely. 

He knew it was going to be like this, that he would have to endure hours of worry in limbo, not knowing whether he could soon look back at this as just another grim adventure or if the foundations of his life was about to be utterly destroyed.

The hospital room is quiet, and somewhat desolate now that there's not even a bed in it. It had been wheeled out mere minutes ago with the sleeping form of Sherlock Holmes sprawled on it.

His flatmate had succumbed to the siren song of the tranquilizer so suddenly it had rattled John. He had envisioned their parting conversation to be rather different. Different in what way, he wasn't entirely sure. Now he was left with the feeling something had been violently torn away. 

Maybe he'd been so preoccupied with trying to keep Sherlock's spirits up, sorting out all the practicalities that he had forgotten himself a bit in the process. 

An errant memory floats to the surface, one from several days prior. Sherlock had been restless all evening and finally John had picked up his violin and presented it to Sherlock. First he'd declined with one of his usual dismissals - "dull" - but John had been insistent. He'd had a hunch that after the frightening night during which he had suddenly been unable to play, Sherlock had been avoiding the instrument. Probably worried it might happen again and be permanent. 

Sherlock had held the violin for a moment without raising the instrument to his shoulder, eyeing John with indignation.

"What?" John had finally asked.

Sherlock had launched into a frenzied, screechy rendition of "Mary Had A Little Lamb". 

John's mouth had tightened into a line. "You're in a sulky mood," he had remarked and picked up his teacup. It was empty - which was not the way he had left it - whereas Sherlock's cup lay abandoned on the sofa table, still full. "Damn it, Sherlock. You just had to. Sometimes I feel like you're really trying to be a complete cock on purpose." 

The screeching continued. 

"Sherlock!" John had finally yelled.

"Shut up!" Sherlock had yelled back, but put down the violin. "John, just please, just don't." He abandoned the violin on a sofa cushion.

"Don't what?" John had asked quietly.

"Don't try to pretend that you would be content with something like that. A broken, useless version of me. All the skills that you so enjoy gone. Don't pretend that you wouldn't leave."

John had looked at him very seriously. "Sherlock, I don't care if you could only struggle through 'Mary had a little lamb' every day from here to doomsday if you need to learn how to play again. Or if you never make a single deduction again. I'm here because of you, not the stuff you do."

John was painfully aware how much the violin meant to Sherlock - as much as all of his superior skills he enjoyed utilizing. "Let me rephrase that. Look, if something happens during surgery - - there's one thing you can count on. I will never, ever leave."

The somewhat shellshocked look in Sherlock's eyes had lessened but not disappeared. "Why?" Sherlock had asked, genuinely unsure.

John wanted to kick himself for not answering the question properly then and there. For being such a coward. 

He'd wanted to avoid feeling all of it, feeling so much at once. Trying to verbalize things he had no proper name for. After making some pathetic joke about the responsibilities of a good flatmate John had simply retreated to his bedroom and went to sleep, trying to convince himself that he'd calmed Sherlock down enough for them both to get a good night's sleep. 

Come to think of it, it had probably been that very evening that Sherlock had resorted to comforting himself with his emergency stash.

Now all the feelings John had proverbially swept under the rug were threatening to rip him into pieces.

He was a soldier. And a doctor. He'd buried two parents, lived through the construct of his sister's life unraveling before his very eyes without being able to do much to help. He'd had brothers-in-arms die during his army days despite all his efforts to save them. 

Why was this so different, so much worse, in this very visceral way?

Within that question lies some sort of a frightening sense of finality and realization and John feels like it's probably too much to tackle in his current sense of mind. 

He knows the answer, he really does, and one day he'll probably be able to act on it. Right now Sherlock needs to survive and John needs to keep it together. 

He leans onto the backrest of the pathetic plastic chair for support and tries to summon the sensible, steadfast Dr Watson from within. 

Look at the statistics, he tells himself. Look at the survival rates for elective surgery. Look at Sherlock's age, his health and his stamina. There's every chance this this will end well, he can almost hear himself telling his patients at the clinic. He now hates that reassuring but forced smile his doctor persona wears, the falseness of the act.

He could never lie to Sherlock because Sherlock would never forgive him. There is no hiding of facts from this man, who sees through everything and everyone. And that was exactly why Sherlock himself had been so terrified. There was a very real chance of things going wrong here, so very wrong.

Fucking hell. If it were anything else than this, anything else than his mind, his brilliance, his fucking brain.

John's hands shake as he holds onto the backrest. Because what else is there to do? 

Let him be fine, John begs the universe.

"Don't die you bloody idiot", John's breathes out. 

"Sherlock did once tell me that you sometimes say things out loud without realizing it," comes a polite voice from the door.

John looks up. 

Mycroft. 

John sighs. He doesn't really have the patience for chitchat with Sherlock's brother right now. "You've just missed him. They took him down to the OR."

"I am aware. Passed them in the hallway." Mycroft closes the door behind him, the door John had been too distracted to even notice opening again.

"What are you doing here, then?" John enquires. 

"I came to express my gratitude for the past week. On behalf of Sherlock."

"If Sherlock had something to tell me, I don't think he would have had any trouble saying it out loud. He doesn't censor his output much."

If this flattery was some sort of a power play on Mycroft's part, or a ploy to get John to do him some inane favour, he wasn't having any of it. 

"You know as well as I do that Sherlock Holmes doesn't engage in discussions about his feelings," Mycroft reminds him.

John eyes him warily. "I don't think that's correct. At all. You just have to _observe_." 

Mycroft doesn't seem offended. He straightens his sleeves and takes off his impeccably tailored jacket. John feels woefully underdressed in his faded checkered shirt and worn jeans. Which is ridiculous, really. It's a hospital. Most people are in nightgowns.

"You've kept him sane. I am impressed. Any business of this sort would be a stressor in the extreme for him."

John lets go of the chair. "I don't think I did as well as you think."

Mycroft looks slightly amused. "If you are referring to the results of the tox screen- - From my perspective, which has slightly more historical context that yours, I would say that the fact that this was the only moment in which you may have had a slight lapse in observational skills only attests to your devotion to Sherlock. And the successful manner in which you have managed to carry him through this."

John doesn't really have a reply. He realizes this is high praise coming from the man who initially had appeared to judge him unworthy. Still, John isn't really in the mood to exchange cryptic jibes with Sherlock's brother.

Without his jacket, Mycroft looks somewhat more relaxed than usual. "I didn't mean to be taxing. I realized this must be very hard for you." He puts his briefcase on the chair, opens it and pulls a familiar-shaped object out. A bottle of whisky. "Care for a slosh?"

John laughs and realizes it comes out slightly hysterical. "Why not." 

 

 

Mycroft leaves some time later after two glasses of some very good Irish single malt. 

John wanders the hospital corridors for awhile. No one pays him much find, even though he looks more like the family member of a patient than a doctor. Maybe it's something in his demeanour that signals that he belongs here.

Not that he does. In hospitals, in general, vocationally yes, but here and now - - 

He can't decide whether to try to avoid thinking about what is going on two floors down or not. 

He eats two spoonfuls of bland soup from the cafeteria and tosses the rest in the bin. He reads The Times headlines on his phone. He imagines which of them might pique Sherlock's interest. 

An hour later he finds himself in front of the main surgical unit. The doors are locked and all he can see through the scratched plexiglass is an empty corridor leading to the theatres. 

John turns to leave, something in him aching knowing that he is mere yards from Sherlock but can't really get to him. 

He then bumps into something - someone. 

It's the anaesthetist, returning to theatre. "Dr Watson?" she asks, surprised, "Can I help you?"

John swallows. "I was just wondering- - "

A realization dawns on Dr Arendse's face. "Look, I've been on lunch break after being relieved by another consultant. They just called me to report that everything is stable and going well. I'm going in just now to take over again. Would you like to be informed when we're out of theatre with him?"

John blinks. "Please," he requests. There must still be a large portion of the operation left, but he'll take any news he can get.

Dr Arendse nods, grants him another smile, flashes her keycard at the sensor to unlock the door and disappears into the theatres.

John is left standing in the empty foyer. Maybe he can now allow himself to have a bit of hope. The hope he hasn't really allowed himself for fear it would be all the more devastating if even the smallest thing went wrong. 

The hope that it was all going to be fine. Like he had tried to promise to Sherlock.


	8. It's over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out how the surgery went. It's time for Sherlock's POV.

> __**Still the question lingers  
> ** **I twist it round my fingers**  
>  **Could you be my calling?**  
>  \- PJ Harvey 

 

Light. Mild smell of antiseptic. 

He tries to swallow. There's a metallic taste and his throat is dry and sore. It's vile.

He's alone but not really. Some human-shaped figures move around in his peripheral vision, mere blurs of motion. He blinks once, twice, three times, and things come into better focus. 

His whole transport feels like lead. Disconnected. It's like some wire is partially loose and nerves and limbs aren't quite in tune.

He remembers John telling him to recover, but he's not sure at all what it is that has gone missing and how he is supposed to find it. Recover what? Come to think of it, John doesn't seem to be present. It can't be John that he has misplaced, can it? 

He tries to raise his head but stars explode behind his eyelids, something electronic begins  
to whine and there's a pressure like someone is twisting a metallic band around his head. A wave of nausea rises from somewhere in the fog of his mind and he rides it out, gritting his teeth.

The incessant electronic chiming of some... thing behind him ceases but soon another begins beeping. 

Someone appears next to him. He or she is tall, so very tall, and Sherlock marvels how tall the person is until he realizes it's only because he's lying down and the person next to him is standing. Only a skewed perspective.

He almost laughs. How could he possibly be this slow? Is this how normal people functioned?

"Mr Holmes?" the unidentified person says. A melodic tone with a higher register... A woman? Sherlock squints and finally, things come to a better focus, at least for a moment. "John?" he tries to ask before realizing that it's unlikely this person is John, since as far as he can remember John has never been a woman.

God, this is hateful. Everything is slow, so slow, and he can't do a thing to fix it.

"John?" he tries again, just for good measure. He's not even sure he's emitting any actual sounds of it's all just echoes inside his head. 

"Not John, sorry. It's Nora." A hand appears above Sherlock's head, reaching for something and soon the vile, incessant beeping stops. "That's better. Just a bit high on the heart rate. Welcome to the recovery room." The woman's tone is warm and Sherlock decides he adores her for giving him at least some sort of useful information. Heart rate? Recovery room? Pieces finally slide into place. Surgery. John has told him to recover from surgery.

"Thirsty," he says because he's now deduced this might be at least part of what he's feeling. Or not. 

"You're not allowed any food or drink until tomorrow, but I can get you some ice chips. How are you feeling?"

"Notsure," he tries and is frustrated by his sudden lack of precise articulation. 

"That's okay. It takes a while to get your bearings. Any pain?"

Sherlock tries to take an inventory. His head doesn't feel like it's about to explode anymore - he makes a note not to try to lift it a second time. There's a strange sense of soreness on his scalp. Come to think of it, there's a strange soreness _everywhere_, as though he's fallen asleep in a weird position and all his muscles have gone a bit stiff. 

He tries to raise his right hand but something snags, pulling on his index finger. He stares at the contraption and knows that he knows what it is but can't for the life of him remember what it's called. He tries the Mind Palace, but it's shrouded in fog and he can't even find the damned place.

It's like being out to sea with no compass. 

"It's a pulse ox," Nora tells him, "Let's leave it on, yeah?" 

Sherlock suddenly realizes that it's somehow good, very good, excellent that he can move his fingers. John will probably tell him why because he can't really remember. Wasn't there something about surgery?

He slowly turns his head to face Nora and there's an uncomfortable twinge on his neck. Come to think of it, there's a whole orchestra of unpleasant little sensations beginning to register. He moves his hand until his fingers encounter a thick set of something. Electrical chords? Some of them feel thicker and softer. He flinches as Nora's hand descends on his own and gently pries his fingers away. "We need those tubes left in so no tugging. How about resting some more? It'll all make more sense later."

Sherlock lets out a breath. Maybe John can sort this out for him. Sleep does sound very enticing. 

 

Time passes. How much, Sherlock can't really tell. He knows he's been sleeping through at least some of it. The light has changed into a more colourful hue and the sun is low so it must be late afternoon. 

He yawns, letting his eyes remain closed. Something in his throat feels stuffy and swallowing still hurts. He tries to raise his arms to stretch but there's a clattering of metal and he can't move his hands. Curious, but strangely not as alarming as it should be. There is an all-encompassing weariness in him and sleep still feels rather seductive but curiosity is slowly triumphing over his exhaustion. 

His wiggles his fingers as though playing a piano. Everything seems to work fine. Somehow this fills him with relief the source of which isn't entirely clear. 

He twists his wrists to try and grab onto something, but all his fingers can catch on is a soft, thin tubing. Right. Something is telling him it's an iv but he can't quite put his finger on how he arrived at this conclusion.

He opens his eyes and comes face to face with a tiled ceiling. Turning his head, he takes in a largish room with windows on the opposite side. Nothing but sky is visible so it's clearly not a ground floor. There are evenly spaced sets of identical, medical-looking machinery in the alcoves. Some alcoves are occupied, some empty. Several men and women dressed in cerulean scrubs are walking around or sitting in an enclosed space with glass walls, chatting or ferrying equipment around. 

Post-anaesthesia recovery room, he deduces. And then it all comes back. At least most of it. 

Aneurysm. 

John upstairs in the patient room, clearly fighting the onslaught of tears as he tells him to sleep. 

Waking up while being lifted from a bed to an operating table, dizzy and annoyed. 

The brief bliss, as a vial of what was likely to be a potent opioid being pushed into his iv, followed by the burning sting of something else. After that, a whole lot of nothing. 

He hates gaps in his memory, riddles he can't solve because the evidence is no longer there. 

John's voice suddenly floats into his consciousness from somewhere close and for Sherlock it's suddenly the most important and fascinating thing in the world. He turns his head slowly again and spots John in a glass-enclosed space in the middle of the larger area, smiling and receiving a disposable cup from a nurse. It must be filled with something hot, judging by how John moves his fingers around it and the way in which he holds the cup as though trying not to spill anything. 

The nurse gestures towards Sherlock and John thanks her. Then he begins a brisk walk towards Sherlock. 

John doesn't look alarmed, only slightly concerned and more than a little relieved. He halts by the bed, and it looks like he's taking stock of the scene, his posture slightly apprehensive. 

Sherlock realizes he's forgotten to say something. "John?" 

This singular word makes John looks like he's won the lottery. He quickly puts the cup he's carrying on the floor, and snakes his way into hugging Sherlock by circling his arms around his shoulders, trying not to dislodge any of the wires and tubes which Sherlock had just been about to start an inventory of. "Thank God," John says, and leans over to encircle his arms around Sherlock in a careful but firm squeeze. 

Something is new. Something he can't really pinpoint. John is not holding him in his usual reserved way, instead his touch is weirdly unguarded. 

Sherlock decides he likes it. 

John is warm, and the feeling of his arms is a welcome distraction from the slight twinges he's feeling as every movement makes some of a wire or tube move against his skin or snag somewhere. 

When John pulls away Sherlock is thrown back into the reality of being stuck in a bed, feeling mostly like he'd been ran over. His muscles are aching profoundly from remaining in the same position for hours.

"You're alright", John states hopefully.

"Don't feel so great," Sherlock admits hoarsely and wiggles his wrists again. 

John but suddenly looks unsure and slightly nervous, "Sorry," he then says and does something to Sherlock's wrist, then repeats the movement on the opposite side. 

Sherlock realizes he can now lift his hands and does so, relishing the feeling.

"They had to restrain you. You tried to pull out your CVC."

Sherlock wiggles his fingers one by one, then tests his toes. Everything is still a bit slow but works as far as he can tell. "I don't remember."

"I didn't think you would. You were just coming out of anaesthesia."

"Were you here before? I don't think I saw you."

"They called me, told me that you'd woken up, very disoriented but able to speak and move, and after trying to make a mess of your monitoring, had fallen back asleep. They told me to come here in a couple of hours."

"Okay," Sherlock answers. Everything feels intense and taxing. "How did it go?" he enquires.

John laughs a little, sounding both nervous and relieved, as though letting go of some excess worry like an exhalation. He looks so very tired. Even more so than on those nights when Sherlock has dragged him out of bed at 4 am because there'd been a murder. Or the toaster was emitting grey smoke. Or Sherlock couldn't find his phone.

"Took them longer than anticipated since the aneurysm was so big but basically smooth sailing." 

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment. It takes effort to open them again. So tired.

This must be visible on his face, because John then asks "Should I go? Do you want to sleep some more?"

Sherlock shakes his head. He doesn't want to be left here. He doesn't want to sleep. He needs an ally in this alien space. He wants his blogger. "Don't go."

John smiles, really smiles and Sherlock can't help but smile back.

"Do you want anything? I'm not allowed to feed you, but I could get one of those icky lemon sticks if you'd like."

Sherlock sticks out his tongue and John laughs again, almost giddily. His eyes are full of what could only be categorized as fondness. 

It's probably this place, the surgery and the anaesthesia, but Sherlock suddenly feels like his emotions are getting the better of him. If he continues to look at John for much longer he might do something ghastly. Like cry.

He fumbles around the edge of the bed. John seems to read his mind and grabs a remote control. "Head up?" 

Sherlock nods. "If I'm allowed," he remarks. This place is full of arbitrary rules. Boring.

John obliges and soon they are a bit closer to one another, Sherlock now half-sitting. Something about this makes Sherlock somehow more self-conscious. Maybe it's the way in which John is still looking at him, as though cataloguing his every inch. Is this how people feel when he's deducing them?

Sherlock drops his gaze and idly pushes around some of the wires with his fingers. John leans in to help organize them so they aren't pulled taut by the now raised bed. 

Sherlock's head is throbbing slightly now - it's merely uncomfortable, not painful but a distraction nonetheless. He glances at the monitor behind him. 

John's eyes wander to it as well. "You're still on noradrenaline to keep your blood pressure up. Everything looks quite alright as far as I can tell."

Sherlock gives him a sideways look. "'Quite alright'. Such a precise diagnosis, Dr Watson," he comments, deadpan. 

John gently gives his arm a shove. "Prat."

Sherlock realizes there's something on his pillow, a dry and flaky substance. He grabs some of it between his tumb and index finger. Coagulated blood. His fingers fly to his head. It's mostly bandaged but some loose curls are matted and sticky with what must be blood. 

"You've got a new haircut," John tells him gently.

This had never occurred to Sherlock, that they would have to shave some of his hair off. Maybe he had been informed of this during one of the appointments. Maybe not. He hadn't been listening during a large portion of them. He'd figured John would already know all that was pertinent and would fill in if he forgot about something. Sherlock had been quite busy at the time trying not to scream out of frustration and sheer horror. 

He runs his fingers through the unbandaged areas of his scalp. There are four small, round scabs surrounded by more dried blood. 

John must have caught onto to the apprehension on his face because he gently tries to pry Sherlock's fingers off. "It's just the pinholes for the Sugita - the contraption which they secured your head to the operating table, I mean."

Normally, Sherlock would be fascinated that they'd drilled holes into his head. Right now he doesn't want to entertain the thought further for some reason. He leaves his head be. 

"When are they going to let me out of here?"

"When you get better."

"That's a non-answer. What are the parameters of 'better', pray tell?"

"As you were told before, they usually release patients to the stepdown ICU the following morning. That reminds me," John digs out his phone, quickly types a text message and presses send. 

Sherlock is too exhausted to try to follow his movements to deduce what he's typed. Instead he looks at John inquisitively.

"Mycroft," John says and puts his phone back in his shirt pocket. 

Sherlock groans. "It would serve him right to keep him in suspense."

John says nothing. It seems like he's not in the mood for downtalking the fiend. Instead he grabs Sherlock's hand and holds it. 

Usually doing intimate things like this seem to bother John. These things they do that others will find hidden meanings in. To Sherlock there are no hidden meanings. John will either do these things or not and if yes, they are for Sherlock and Sherlock only. At least that's what Sherlock likes to think. He doesn't care what other people think and it pains him that John still very often does.

This, however, doesn't seem to be one of those times.

It's all fine. Like John had told him that very first evening. It had felt like a promise then. And John never failed to keep his promises.

John is beaming at him as if the man has gone completely off his rocker. Sherlock can't help but smile back.

Then he closes his eyes and instead of this bleak, faintly iodine-smelling place there's just John and at least for a moment there's nowhere that Sherlock would rather be.


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the surgery.

"Can't get enough of watching me, can you?" Sherlock asks, eyes still closed. He hears John shifting in his seat by the bed. Judging by the way he clears his throat Sherlock gauges the man is slightly embarrassed by his observation.

Sherlock opens his eyes, squinting as there is a barrage of sunlight on his retinas from the window. "How long was I sleeping?"

"Since they brought you from the OR floor. Seven hours or so, I guess. And before you start protesting --" John raises his hand to silence Sherlock who he knows is about to open his mouth - "I think it's my medical duty to tell you that it's a good thing. You're not expected to be firing on all cylinders yet, and sleep is good."

Sherlock looks incredulous. "'Firing on all cylinders', John? Have you been watching that imbecilic car programme again?"

John shoots him a dirty look and digs out his phone. "There's been tons of messages, people wanting to know how it went. I didn't want to reply before I had your permission. There's Molly, and Mrs Hudson, and Mycroft--"

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "Mycroft probably has already read every bloody word on my chart. Tell him to sod off."

"I think he would be very happy to hear those words from you personally."

Sherlock snorts and tries to adjust the bandages on his head as they are threatening to descend too low on his forehead. "You can answer everyone else. They will trust your assessment."

"Won't they trust yours?"

Sherlock sits up in bed. "You above all have been telling me that I have a propensity to downplay my physical impairments."

"Actually, this time I think you've been taking things surprisingly seriously. Unlike, for example, that one time when they had to put a screw in your ankle because you wouldn't keep your cast dry and the fracture got worse."

"That was just a leg. This is more important."

John sighs. "I know."

Sherlock swings his legs over the edge of the bed and sits on the edge for a moment. John notices him closing his eyes and a thin film of sweat forming on his forehead.

"Are you alright? You look peaky. You sure you want to be getting out of bed?"

Sherlock says nothing, waiting for the wave of disorientation and nausea to pass. After some minutes, it does. He lets out a breath he hadn't realized holding. "Help me up," he says to John, suddenly embarrassingly unsure whether his legs will carry his weight.

Probably realizing it's useless to try and argue, John stands up and offers his arms. Sherlock grips both of them near his elbows and slowly edges off the bed.

They stand there for a moment, arms still joined. Sherlock bites his lip as he realizes the intent with which John is looking at him. He doesn't know what the proper thing to say or do is at a moment like this. 

John solves this problem for him by pulling him close and circling his arms around him. After an overwhelming second or two, Sherlock decides to cease the moment and lets his head fall onto John's shoulder.

"I'm so glad," John breathes into what's left of his hair and Sherlock realizes he knows that there are quite a few things that John Watson is glad about at the moment. 

It's not only what they've just been through. It's for all those things still in the future.

Sherlock shares his sentiment but isn't quite sure how to vocalize it. Perhaps he doesn't need to. John seems to be quite content just being able to hold him like this. 

Slowly, they separate and Sherlock finds himself shivering slightly in the drafty room, wearing only his hospital gown. John had felt warm, and he realizes he misses the feeling already. 

He slowly walks the couple of steps to the window, pulling his iv stand with him, and closes the ventilating pane. Then he returns to the bed, feeling John's scrutinizing gaze following him.

"How are you feeling?" John asks and Sherlock sits down on the bed, leaving his leg dangling from the edge. It's nice to stretch his ankles a bit.

"I don't know," Sherlock admits, "There's no reference."

"In pain? Nauseous? Dizzy? Tired?"

"No, slightly, not at the moment, God yes. Not what I meant."

John cocks his head inquisitively. "What, then?"

Sherlock raises his head and meets John's gaze. "If there was a problem, you'd tell me? Some kind of impairment?" He articulates this carefully, as though wary of the word.

John laughs. "I think you would be the first to notice. Crack on the wall of the mind palace, or something."

Sherlock doesn't smile. 

"Are you still worried about what that anaesthetist said? She was an idiot, Sherlock."

Sherlock still looks worried. John realizes that since this is Sherlock and not someone else, reassurances are not going to work. The man needs some data to process.

"Look," John says and sits down next to him on the edge of the bed, "The aneurysm is, was, at the base of your skull. To get there, they have to go through some other structures. Some connections are bound to get cut or stretched. Those the brain can repair or compensate for. Of course you're going to be tired and dizzy and a bit off kilter for awhile because it's a big stress, someone rummaging around in there, and there's always some swelling. After a few weeks that's going to be gone and you can expect to be back to your old self. It's only when there's an actual complication that you'd expect to see any considerable long-term changes in brain function."

Sherlock mulls this over. "When can I return to work?"

"It'll take a couple of weeks for your wounds to close. Before that happens, there's a risk for catching meningitis if you go digging around corpses or whatever. You can start taking cases when you feel like you can, but before the wounds heal you're going to pretty much have to stay indoors. And no experiments. Molly's with me on this moratorium."

"I wasn't planning on taking any casework for approximately two months."

John is taken aback. "What? Why?"

Sherlock doesn't reply but he reveals his thoughts anyway by idly fingering the bandage on his head.

John blinks. "Oh."

Sherlock's hand drops.

"You could wear a baseball cap. Or the --"

"I forbid you from even suggesting that dreadful ear hat, John. And can you really picture me in a baseball cap?"

"We could always say you're undercover or have joined a punk band."

John laughs and dodges the pillow that's suddenly flying towards his head.

 

\- The End -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this story, while John is aware that in all likelihood everything will be allright, but at the same time he's painfully aware of the risks of the journey they are taking. The road of bones is the colloquial name of a highway in northern Russia. The bones of construction workers who died while building it have been used in the foundations of the road. While traveling on it, one is reminded of those traveling the same desolate landscape with less fortunate fates.
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed this story. I would love to hear what you thought of it. 
> 
> zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
> 
> The Loreena McKennitt quote is from the song "Skellig".  
> The Saint Saviour quote is from the song "Let It Go".  
> The Shakespeare quote is from Prospero's speech in The Tempest.  
> The PJ Harvey quote is from the song "The Slow Drug".  
> The National quotes are from the songs "Start A War" (chapter 3), "Graceless" (chapter 4) and "Brainy" (chapter 6).  
> The title of chapter 2 is the name of a Lacuna Coil song.  
> The title of chapter 3 comes from The National's song "Don't Swallow The Cap":
> 
> zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
> 
> My writing soundtrack for this story:
> 
>  
> 
> __
>
>> Nothing But Thieves: Emergency  
> Saint Saviour: Bang  
> Broods: Medicine  
> MS MR: Twenty Seven  
> Hurts: Help  
> Lacuna Coil: Falling Again  
> Evanescence: All That I'm Living For  
> PJ Harvey: The Slow Drug  
> Saint Saviour: Let It Go  
> Lykke Li: Gunshot  
> Nothing But Thieves: Graveyard Whistling  
> MS MR: This Isn't Control

**Author's Note:**

> [The DVD Extras - including a missing scene](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4956424)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for "The Road of Bones"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4551441) by [J_Baillier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier)
  * [Alternate cover art for "The Road of Bones"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4557663) by [J_Baillier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier)




End file.
